It took me a few seconds to move past my despairing shock, and another few to process his words—he was going to put it back.
“Wait, what? What are you doing?” I called as I jogged to the kitchen, “You can’t put back cake. There is no putting cake back, and you’ve already taken a bite.”
I found Matty hunched over the cake. He’d slid his wedge back into place and was using his finger to blur the line he’d made in the meringue frosting. He was making a mess.
“Stop—”
“I am so sorry, Fiona. Sometimes my stomach does the thinking and I’m powerless against it. Some people have a devil and an angel on their shoulders; I have a stomach on one side and a tongue with giant papillae on the other. And then there’s my irrational love for coconut.”
I grabbed his hand and removed it and his person from the vicinity of the cake; then I turned to assess the damage. It was beyond repair. The meringue was crushed, and he’d flattened the coconut in his haste to return his piece. I sighed sadly. It looked old and tired, rumpled and ruined.
And I had an odd thought: the cake was me.
I was the cake.
I was a mess.
And I had a piece missing . . .
Peripherally, I saw Jack peek into the kitchen, his big eyes moving between Matty, the cake, and me; and then he said, “It’s ruined.”
“Yes. Yes, it is,” I said.
Jack hesitated, stepped into the kitchen, and licked his lips; hope permeated his question as he asked, “Does that mean we can eat it now?”
I looked at my son and unexpectedly laughed. And once I laughed I couldn’t stop. I gripped the counter and held my stomach. But with the laughter also came tears. And soon there was no laughter, only tears.
The two males in the kitchen were paralyzed by my outburst, and I was aware of their eyes on me, confused and panicked. Eventually, Matty stepped forward and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, turning my face to his chest.
“Jack, make your mom a cup of tea, please.” As he said this, he escorted me out of the kitchen and into the living room, awkwardly patting my back and guiding me to the sofa.
We didn’t speak. I cried for another minute, but no longer. I was able to rein in the tears by pulling away, gathering several deep breaths, and mentally rearranging my schedule for the next day. Since I had to cancel the doctor’s appointment, I would be able to make another cake.
No big deal.
I could handle this.
No problem.
Everything happens for a reason.
I was not a crier.
I didn’t know why I was crying now.
No need for these ridiculous tears.
“I’m really sorry,” he said again, a note of desperation in his voice.
“No, I’m sorry.” I shook my head, wiping my eyes. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s just a cake, and I did say anything in the fridge was fine. I think I’m just tired. Grace hasn’t been sleeping well this last week and I’ve . . . well, I haven’t been sleeping well either, and there’s a lot going on.”
I felt his scrutinizing gaze moving over my features as I stared at a spot on my jeans, trying to remember how much coconut I had left in the pantry. I would skip my glass of wine, get my contract work done tonight, and make the cake in the morning after taking the kids to school. I could talk to Jack’s teacher about the field trip, purchase the rest of the cake ingredients, and stop by the hardware store for a new garbage disposal . . .
Neither of us spoke for a long minute until Matty asked, “What’s that music?”
I glanced at the phone in my hand I hadn’t realized I was still holding; “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” had been replaced with “Welcome to The Jungle.”
“Oh, I’m on hold with the hospital.”
“The hospital?”
“Yes. My sitter just cancelled as she’s sick with strep throat.”
“Is she in the hospital? For strep throat?”
“No. She’s at home with antibiotics. I have to cancel my appointment for tomorrow.”
Matty’s confused frown smoothed but was replaced with concerned surprise. “Your appointment?”
“Yes. I had an MRI scheduled for six thirty a.m. I’ve been having headaches. Anyway, the sitter was going to take the kids into school for me, but since she’s sick I’m going to reschedule. Which is why I’m on hold now.”
Matty reached for my hand holding the phone, drawing my eyes to his. “Fiona, please let me take the kids in. I am so sorry about the cake; let me make it up to you. Then you don’t need to cancel your appointment.”
“No, no. I can’t ask you to do that.” I waved away his suggestion.
“You’re not asking. I’m offering. It’s no trouble at all. I don’t have office hours tomorrow until three. It’ll give me a reason to wake up before noon.”
“No . . .”